


Day 1: Street Lamp

by fearfully_beautifully_made



Series: December (Christmas) Challenge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, December Challenge Day 1, December Fanfic Challenge, Frottage, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love Confessions, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 23:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearfully_beautifully_made/pseuds/fearfully_beautifully_made
Summary: This is a Christmas ficlet about Sherlock and John (finally) talking to one another and getting their acts together. Love confessions and mostly fluff. Short and sweet!





	Day 1: Street Lamp

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovies!
> 
> I’m attempting the December challenge and writing a little Johnlock fic each day, they’ll all be posted in a collection. Enjoy! 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are deeply, greatly appreciated.

December 1- Street Lamp

It’s a quiet night at 221 B.

Sherlock hates the quiet. It makes his skin crawl with the unsettling feeling that something’s not right. It makes the void, that’s always there when John is not, even more profound. In the quiet, he knows exactly what he is missing.

It’s Christmas Eve and John’s gone off to Harriet’s with Rosie, even though Sherlock had invited him to spend Christmas at his parents’ home. He can’t blame him, not really. Not after all that’s happened. Not after the year they’ve had. Not after Mary and Eurus, not after all the death and the trauma. Besides, Harriet’s been sober for six months now. It’s good for her to have John and Rosie come round.

It’s not like John would be here if he weren’t with his sister, anyway, he reminds himself coldly. He and Rosie would be tucked away in their cozy little home where John chose to build a life with Mary. Sherlock would still be all alone, battling the sound of silence.

Tomorrow, Sherlock will go and spend the day with his parents and Mycroft, rather than the people he... he trails off, even in his own mind, shying away from the damning word. It’s hateful.

He rises from his chair and scoops up his violin, whisking over to the window to watch the snow falls while he plays. He decides on a bit of Tchaikovsky, it’s John’s favorite, even if he doesn’t realize it. He’s just tucked his violin under his chin and raised his bow when movement across the street catches his eye. He realizes it’s a person standing there, out in the snow, the light illuminating their coat and hat. 

He squints into the darkness, cursing the fact that he should probably get glasses. The man’s posture, the stance, the tilt of his chin; it all scream John Watson. 

And he knows it’s impossible. He knows John is away, he knows the figure standing below can’t possibly be John. John wouldn’t just be standing out there under a street lamp. 

And yet.

He can’t help himself. He sets down his violin and rushes out the door. He flies down the stairs, not bothering with his coat, and he’s out the front door before he can think better of it. He immediately looks across the road to the street light the man had been standing under, but he’s gone. He looks left and right before spotting him walking briskly away down the sidewalk. 

“John!” he calls out, his voice sounding more desperate than he’d like.

The figure pauses, shoulders raised and tense.

“John,” Sherlock can’t help but murmur, wonder coloring his tone.

Slowly the other man turns to face him, and Sherlock is shocked by the look on his face. John is in anguish. His eyes are rimmed red, cheeks are pink from the cold, his teeth are chattering. He must be freezing. Sherlock wonders how long John’s been standing out in the cold.

“Come on,” he says softly, reaching out toward John. His fingers ache to touch him, to brush along his skin, to cup his windburned cheeks. Instead, he lets his hand drop back to his side. “Come inside.”

John nods once and Sherlock can feel his eyes burning into the back of his skull as they go inside. He heads straight for the kitchen as John takes off his coat. Sherlock puts the kettle on, thinking this must be a problem for tea.

A moment passes and he hears John’s soft, steady footsteps behind him. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?” John asks, his voice coming out hoarse and strained.

Sherlock steels himself not to turn around and look at him. It’s John’s first Christmas without Mary, he must be missing her terribly. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready, I imagine.”

He hears John audibly swallow as he pours the tea. There’s a slight intake of breath as though John’s about to say something, then he’s holding his breath for a tick, before letting the air rush from his lungs again.

Sherlock turns then and offers him a cup of tea, which John accepts with a nod. He wraps his hands around the cup, clearly trying to warm himself up.

“Come on,” Sherlock says again. “You look frozen. Let’s sit over by the fire.”

John follows him over and lowers himself gingerly into his armchair.

Sherlock feels a pang in his chest as he remembers all the times they’ve sat like this. The quiet evenings when their feet would mingle on the floor between them, stretching out to brush against one another. Of the times when John would stretch his legs out to brace his toes on the seat of Sherlock’s chair and Sherlock would casually lean his thigh against John’s feet. 

He’s always remained impassive in those moments, always kept a cool exterior, as though his very blood wasn’t singing with joy, as though his lungs had been able to fully expand and take in enough air, as though his heart wasn’t doing a complicated jig in his chest.

It’s not like that anymore and Sherlock doesn’t have adequate words to express his longing. It feels like he doesn’t have enough space in his chest to absorb the hole John Watson’s left.

John is staring at him now, his eyes boring into Sherlock’s face as though he’s weighing everything Sherlock’s ever done. Sherlock swallows, “Where’s Rosie?” he asks, even though he knows that she must be with Harriet.

“Harry,” John says. “Auntie Harry,” he corrects and his face softens for the first time this evening. “That’s what she insisting I call her. And Clara, auntie Clara.”

“That’s nice,” Sherlock says, surprising himself with the knowledge that he actually means that. “I’m happy for them, that they’re having another go at it.”

John tips his head in agreement, “Something nice to be said about second chances.”

Sherlock looks away at those words, knowing John’s given him so many second chances that it can hardly even count as a second chance at this point. Yet he longs for another one, desperately. It’s all he can dream about, the opportunity to try one more time not to let John down. He’d do anything for one more chance.

John clears his throat, “Listen, Sherlock,” he says, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, before blowing out a breath, “Do you have anything stronger than tea?”

Sherlock blinks uncomprehendingly for a moment, had John come to his house because he couldn’t drink at Harry’s? “Ummm, yes,” Sherlock says as he rises and strides to the kitchen. 

He pours John a generous two fingers of whiskey before splashing a third in for good measure. After debating for a moment, he decides he may as well join in.

He hands John his drink and John takes a large gulp, then another before Sherlock’s even sat down. He returns to the kitchen and fetches the bottle, setting it on the coffee table.

John looks down at the bit of liquid still in his glass, avoiding looking at Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock starts, his own voice trembling slightly. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

John’s eyes flick to his and he swallows, “I’m no good at this,” he informs Sherlock. “Not at all.”

Sherlock takes a careful, calm breath, fighting the urge to shake John until he tells him what’s bothering him.

“I guess I’ll sit come out and say it, then,” John says before downing the last of his drink and pouring a bit more into his glass.

Sherlock nods, heart trembling.

“When you,” John pauses to swallow and it’s excruciating, “When you jumped,’ he pauses again and Sherlock wishes he could take back his words form earlier. He doesn’t want to know. If John hasn’t forgiven him for jumping, there’s no hope at all. He’s done so much to damage their relationship since then, if John can’t forgive him for jumping, he’s doomed.

“Fuck,” John growls. “No, you know what? Sod this.” He stand up and he swallows down his whiskey in one go.

Sherlock knows this is the end, he can feel it. John is going to leave and he's never going to come back. 

“I was in love with you,” John says, and Sherlock’s not sure how he’s gotten the words out through his clenched teeth. Sherlock looks up and their eyes lock again, his chest feels like it’s being torn in two, the pain playing across John’s face is almost too much for him to bear.

“I was in love with you,” he repeats, softer this time, “And I prayed. Every day. I prayed for a miracle.” John blinks, “Then I got it, but somehow everything got so messed up. You came back but everything was wrong and I couldn’t fix it. And things just kept getting worse and worse, and now,” John stops, his breathing ragged.

“Was?” Sherlock asks softly, because it’s the most important word in all that John has said.

“What?” John asks, looking down at him.

“You said ‘I was in love with you,’” Sherlock swallows, and decides to be just a little brave, “What about now?”

“I’m still so stupidly in love with you,” John blurts angrily. “It’s stupid and it’s hopeless and I know that. But I love you and I want you. I’m dying, the way we are right now, “ he gestures helplessly, “It’s killing me.

A tears slips down John’s cheek and Sherlock aches to wipe it away but before he can do anything John’s speaking again, “Can I please come home? Me and Rosie? We can figure out the arrangements, just please Sherlock. Please give me a second chance,” John looks up at him then, his eyes piercing, “I’ll never lay a hand on you again, I swear it. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock is standing before he has any idea what he’s doing. “John,” he breathes, and he’s not quite sure how he’s managed it, but his feet carry him across the gap between the two of them, and he’s pressing his lips to John’s. 

John’s fists clench in the back of Sherlock’s shirt, drawing him closer and holding him tight. His mouth opens against Sherlock’s and he’s kissing him back.

Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands, brushing his thumbs through the trails of tears that have tracked down his cheeks. He pulls back, “Of course. Of course I forgive you.” He opens his eyes, “I don’t know how you can forgive me.”

“For what?” John asks, his face open and soft in a way that makes him look ten years younger.

“Everything,” Sherlock whispers, “I’ve done such terrible things to you.”

“Likewise,” John replies, his fingers stroke through Sherlock's curls and Sherlock has to close his eyes against the emotions rising up in his chest.

“Stay,” he whispers to John.

“Hmm?” John asks softly.

“Stay tonight,” he asks. “We can go out first thing in the morning to get to Harriet’s before Rosie even wakes up. Stay with me tonight,” Sherlock opens his eyes, “Stay forever.”

John raises up on his toes and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s, “Yeah alright.”

A laugh bubbles out and suddenly Sherlock is crying. It’s ridiculous of course, but he can’t seem to stop laughing, even as his tears seep into his skin. And then John’s kissing him, kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, kissing him as though he’s precious, as though he’s somehow worthy of love.

“I love you,” John whispers as though he’s read Sherlock’s mind.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock replies, “But there is one thing about what you said earlier...” Sherlock says, trailing off.

“Anything,” John says seriously.

“I’m definitely going to need you to lay your hands on me,” Sherlock replies with a cheeky grin.

“Is that so?” John replies with a smirk.

John’s hands slide down the curve of Sherlock’s spine until they’re resting just over his arse. “Yes,” Sherlock tells him, voice high and soft.

“Come on then,” John says, tugging him back toward Sherlock’s bedroom.

Sherlock follows, heart fluttering wildly in his chest.

Once they’re through the door, John pushes it closed and takes Sherlock’s hand in his, “Is this what you want?”

“Well, not quite,” Sherlock says. John’s head snaps up to look at him and Sherlock gives him a teasing grin, “I’d much rather we be naked.”

John laughs, “That can be arranged.” 

Sherlock watches as John undoes his buttons with careful, sure fingers. The back of his fingers brush against Sherlock’s chest and leave a trail of warmth in their wake.

Sherlock shudders, his entire body is overwhelmed with the feeling of  _ John. _ His eyes slip closed as John’s hands brush over his skin. He finishes the buttons, then his palms slide slowly, sensuously up Sherlock’s abdomen and chest, skating over his nipples and up to his shoulders so he can push his shirt off. Then John’s stroking his hands down Sherlock’s arms, tracing the path the shirt’s taken. 

“John,” Sherlock breathes as John’s fingers ghost across his skin, barely touching him, lighting here and there, before sliding up to cup Sherlock’s jaw and draw their mouths together.

John sighs into the kiss, moving his lips leisurely against Sherlock’s. His hands leave Sherlock’s face, sliding down his neck and ghosting over his chest and belly. Sherlock’s abdomen quivers as John’s fingers move to his button and zip. His fingers clench in the fabric of John’s jumper and his breathing comes out too fast as he gasps for breath.

“Alright?” John asks with genuine concern.

Sherlock nods dumbly, words are too hard to conjure at the moment.

John leans in again, his lips molding to Sherlock’s once more as his fingers flick open the button of Sherlock’s trousers before easing the zip down. The feeling of John’s fingers brushing over his erection make him whimper pitifully.

“My darling,” John breathes against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, “You’re perfect.”

And Sherlock feels like weeping again, he feels like he’s flying to pieces and being reconstructed in John’s arms.

John hooks his thumbs in Sherlock’s pants, “Yes?”

Sherlock emits a stream of inarticulate syllables which John correctly interprets as assent.

With one last sweet kiss, John’s moving and Sherlock has to open his eyes to see what he’s doing. John kneels at Sherlock’s feet, tugging his trousers and pants down his legs and helping him step out of them. Once Sherlock is bare before him, John leans in and presses a kiss to his hip before leaning his forehead against his abdomen.

Sherlock lets his fingers trail through John’s hair, combing through the silky strands, more than content to hold John close to himself.

“I love you,” John gasps raggedly and it’s only then that Sherlock realizes the other man in crying. 

“I love you, too,” Sherlock assures before giving John’s hair a gentle tug. “Come here.”

“Sorry,” John murmurs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he stands. 

“Don’t be.” Sherlock cups his face in his hands again and kisses him.

John presses his hands to Sherlock’s chest and steps back, tugging his own shirt off, followed swiftly by trousers and pants. It’s too quick and Sherlock doesn’t have enough time to catalogue John’s body, but then John is kissing him and molding their nude bodies together and he can’t care anymore.

“Bed,” John murmurs as they press against one another.

John steers them to the mattress and pulls the sheets back as he presses Sherlock onto the bed. He settles himself between Sherlock’s legs before pulling the sheet and blankets up to cover them, cocooning them in warmth and one another. Sherlock shudders and wraps his arms tightly around John’s back, his fingers mapping the other man’s strong shoulders and spine.

“Oh,” John says, voice dark and husky, “You feel indescribable.”

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks into John’s eyes, “You are the single most extraordinary person I have ever known.”

John laughs and shakes his head, as though Sherlock is being ridiculous, then he strokes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock can’t think anymore. His mouth drops open of its own accord and he whimpers softly, even as his hips press up, searching for John. “Beautiful,” John growls. 

John keeps one hand in Sherlock’s curls, rubbing his scalp and the other slides down his side until it reaches his hip, then his thumb is stroking along the divot in Sherlock’s hipbone and he’s helpless. 

“John,” he breathes as though he’s never known any other words, as though the other man’s name can communicate every thought and feeling he’s ever had.

“That’s it, darling,” John encourages and Sherlock realizes belatedly that his hips have been rocking up into John, his mouth letting out pitiful whimpering noises. “That’s it,” he says again as he starts to roll his hips, “Don’t stop, sweetheart.”

“John,” Sherlock cries out as John’s cock lines up with his and they rub against one another. Sherlock tucks an arm back in the cage of John’s body above his and brings his hand up to John’s cheek to draw his mouth down to his. 

Obligingly, John’s lips move over Sherlock’s before his tongue is tracing Sherlock’s lower lip, then dipping inside as Sherlock gasps. He lets out a high, breathy moan and John growls and delves deeper in response.

They rock together slowly, slowly, feeling every inch of the other’s body for as long as Sherlock can stand it. Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s hips, then, wanting to pull him closer, wanting to rock against him harder. “John,” he gasps. “John, please.”

The hand that had been on Sherlock’s hip slides in between their bodies and John takes both of their cocks in his hand.

“John,” Sherlock whimpers desperately.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” John moans against Sherlock’s lips, he rocks harder, their leaking cocks making John’s grip and their cocks slippery. “Come on,” he encourages again. “Come on.” John leans in to suck a bruise into Sherlock’s neck. “Come for me, darling.”

Sherlock cries out as his cock erupts against John’s and John strokes him through it. When he’s caught his breath he begs, “Now you.” 

John groans and Sherlock wraps his legs higher around John’s waist, tilting his hips up. John adjusts his cock so it’s caught between Sherlock’s buttocks and he moans as Sherlock starts undulating his hips lazily and clenching his buttocks around him. “Fuck, Sherlock,” he groans. “Fuck that’s nice.” 

Sherlock hums back, head full of endorphins as he gazes up at the man he loves more than anything. 

John’s forehead drops to Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock realizes he’s watching the way the two of them come together again and again. Sherlock combs his fingers through John’s hair, “Next time,” he murmurs, his tongue thick with disuse, “you can watch your cock disappearing inside of me.”

“Fuck, Sherlock,” he groans, his hips kick up another notch and John is rutting frantically against him. “Fuck, yes.” John’s fingers clench harder in Sherlock’s hips. “Yes,” he hisses, “yes, Sherlock, fuck. Yes,” then John’s body locks against Sherlock’s and he’d coming, Sherlock can feel his hot semen spreading between his buttocks and rocks his hips to draw out John’s pleasure as long as he can before John is collapsing on top of him.

Sherlock wraps his arms and legs tightly around the other man, pressing kisses to his hairline. 

John groans and rolls the two of them so they’re lying on their sides. After a moment, John leans in and catches Sherlock’s lips in a sweet kiss, “That was fantastic.”

Sherlock hums back at him, “I’d like to think of a more accurate word, but I can’t come up with anything.” Sherlock sighs and trails his fingers up and down John’s spine, “Fantastic seems far too mundane.”

John’s answering grin is radiant, brighter than the sun itself. “I love you.”

Sherlock grins back, “I love you, too.” He strokes his thumb across John’s cheek and thinks John looks younger than he has in ages. He looks young like he did before Sherlock jumped, when everything was good, when he laughed and looked at Sherlock like he was the best thing he’d ever seen.

John catches his wrist and turns his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s palm, “What are you thinking?”

“That I’m glad you came back here tonight. That I’m glad I saw you standing under that lamp post, like some strange Mr. Tumnus waiting to take me away on an adventure.”

John laughs, the sound bright and so full of joy that it makes Sherlock’s eyes sting. “Mr. Tumnus,” he echoes, chuckling. “Well, I don’t know about taking you on any great adventure.”

“John,” Sherlock says, leaning in to press his forehead against John’s, “You are the greatest adventure of my life.” 


End file.
